


Not the kitchen scissors

by lindt_barton



Category: Leverage
Genre: (parker hates em), Fluff, Gen, Haircuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 14:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13250112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: "And let a stranger poke at my head? With. Knives," she enunciates, like he's an idiot.





	Not the kitchen scissors

From the kitchenette, _snrkt_ , the sound of- _hhhhk snirkt_ \- of..? Eliot leans his torso backwards over the end of the sofa to peer in and see-

His eyes nearly bulge out of his head. Parker is cutting her bangs with his kitchen scissors. She's squint-glaring upwards, scanning until she finds a strand that displeases her and then- _ffa snuirk_

"God, Parker!" He's already on his feet, thumping towards her, "Not my damn kitchen scissors!" he barks as he snatches them from her hand.

"Hey, I was gonna clean them!" she swipes the air where he just pulled them out of her reach, and pouts.

"You'll make 'em blunt. You need proper hair scissors. Ain't you ever heard of a hairdresser?"

She pulls a horrified face. "And let a stranger poke at my head? With. Knives," she enunciates, like he's an idiot. And there, he has to admit she has a point. It's not like he hasn't been cutting his own hair for the last ten years.

He feels himself go soft.

"Will you let _me_ cut it?"

She considers (visibly) and then nods. Twice, small and neat.

* * *

They sit face to face on the floor. Both in bare feet on the rug in the sitting room. Eliot's legs crossed and hers tucked neatly underneath her. Importantly, she can see every inch of him, and he will let her know if anyone walks up behind her. Absolutely no sneak attacks.

She had expected a surgeon's kit, a hideous array of metal implements, but all he brings is a pair of scissors, far smaller than his kitchen ones, and a flat comb. He tells her, "The combs is so I don't gotta touch you, and the scissors are for," he mimes cutting horizontally. "Scream if you want me to stop," and with a knowing point of the scissors adds, "It's Wedmesday."

She sits silent for a moment letting her body get used to the proximity and the fizz of her hair being moved. Once comfortable, squints upwards at his fingers, trying and failing to work out how he's making the ends less blunt so they don't scratch at her forehead. Quickly, she gets bored and to avoid squirming out of his reach she asks, "How'd you get so good at cutting hair anyways?" even though she can guess at his answer.

"I dated a hairdresser," he says. In the voice that means it was a boy that time. Quieter. More steady, less bravado. "Taught me a few things." No pronouns.

Parker doesn't like the voice. The quiet voice. The voice made of careful hiding. She wants Eliot to boast the same way he does about women (even if it kinda grosses her and Hardison out when he does) because none of them are supposed to hide from each other.

But she'd already tried telling him that and it had not gone well. He had growled and stormed away from her. Parker had not understood why that had happened.

Sophie had hunted them both down later. Nursing their wounds at opposite sides of the appartment. It irritates her that she will never know what Sophie said to him, but to her she said, "Eliot doesn't like talking about emotional things. And sometimes when that's the case, it's better to just skip telling him and let it be true." So if Parker wants Eliot to know that it's okay for him to talk about his boyfriends, then she should just talk to him about them. "Just as if you already had the conversation."

So Parker says, "Was he pretty?"

He says nothing for long enough that she moves to repeat herself, because sometimes she gets thinking and speaking out loud mixed up, but just as she does he says, "He did have great hair," smiles to himself, waggles his eyebrows, and adds, "Not just on his head."

"Ewww gross Eliot!" she cries, shoving him in the shoulder. He rocks backwards like Clark Kent pretending not to have super strength.

Laughing gently he says, "Hey. Hey, I'm only half done," and she lets him steady her back into the centre of the rug.

She gets comfy. She gets bored. She asks him another question.

**Author's Note:**

> this is what happens when im creatively constipated ig


End file.
